


Strawberry Whispers

by brilliantbrioche



Series: Days Gone By [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Genderbending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 13:49:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1390024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brilliantbrioche/pseuds/brilliantbrioche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have their first kiss on their childhood swing set.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strawberry Whispers

**Author's Note:**

> Written for and beta'd by [Neelh.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Neelh)

“Push me higher!” The small girl, with elfin ears and a toothy grin shouted; squealing with glee as the taller, blonde child performed her request.

“Can you see the Eiffel Tower?”

“Yes!” A giggle passed her lips as she threw her head back joyfully. The Eiffel Tower was miles away, out of sight but it didn’t matter, not really. Happy children; happy friendships; real smiles. It’s sad, what became of them.

The taller girl stepped back. “Can I have a go now?”

A voice rang out as the brunette started to answer.

“Enjolras! Enjolras, come on! Get away from her!”

Enjolras turned her head towards her mother then looked back again before placing chapped, chocolate covered lips onto the nose of the smaller girl, and giggled before running off.

Ten minutes later and the brunette stopped swinging. It wasn’t the same, playing on your own, Grantaire decided.

Once you know friendship, it’s hard to go back.

*

“You’re ginger.” Grantaire laughed and shoved the girl playfully from where they were perched on the end of the peer.

“It’s strawberry blonde.”

“Yeah yeah, you go away for a month and come back with-“ She was interrupted again, it was a bit of a habit when it came to important events.

A soft hand rested above hers, their fingers intwined and still soft with baby fat that they would lose over the next few years.

“I’m moving away.”

“Why?” Tears were already forming in the corners of Grantaire’s wide eyes. Children with no need to mask their emotions. Not from one another anyway.

“Papa wants me to go to a different school. He doesn’t like it here.” He doesn’t like you went unsaid, but they both managed to hear it.

Fingers tightened around each other and they hugged.

Two hours later Enjolras was gone and Grantaire was left alone again.

*

She was drunk. Fourteen years old and swaying with the wind, intoxicated by her mothers brandy and sharpened by her fathers fists.

A lot can change in five years.

Enjolras was back; taller, slimmer and hair spinning with golden curls. Her round features had become pointed with age but she still held onto the softness and innocence of youth.

When they met up, there had been hugs and talks of Combeferre and Courfeyrac and more friends she had made; her angelic features lighting up as they once used to over chocolate cake and shared Smarties. 

Grantaire remained silent and hoped she didn’t notice the bruising on her arms and the dirt on her clothes.

*

“Take me with you.”

“I wish I could.”

She was back but now she was gone again; her father wanting only the best for his little angel. Of course.

“We’ll still write?” Letters they had sent since they were seven. Letters that kept Grantaire going.

“Of course.”

*

It was funny how throughout their childhood fate kept taking them away and bringing them back together.

The next time they met it was in the hospital. Grantaire with bandages on her wrists and Enjolras with bags under her eyes.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you in the cafeteria.”

“I tried to kill myself.”

“My mother is dead.”

They spoke at the same time; “Why didn’t you tell me?”

And for the first time an uncomfortable silence settled over them. A wedge divided them and it no longer mattered how long they had known each other or how long they had spent in each others company as children.

At seventeen neither of them had been children for a long while. Maybe in body, but certainly not in mind.

*

Enjolras stared over the park. It was dark and it was cold but she sat on the swing without a jacket and her shoes, thrown over her shoulder, had landed somewhere in the sandpit. 

There was a scruffiling at her side and soon a short, tanned girl sat on the swing next to her.

“Push me. I want to see the tower.”

Grantaire pushed her. There wasn’t a tower to see.

*

It became a habit after that, everyday they would meet and sit on the swings. Enjolras was back for good, after her mother’s death, and they slid back into the friendship they had before.

They were no longer children, full of innocence and happiness; they were broken, worn away by life in the short years they had lived.

Grantaire still wasn’t allowed in Enjolras’ house and Enjolras still never mentioned the scars that lined Grantaire’s arms.

They were broken, in a way, but whole in others. They were whole together.

One night, when it was silent apart for the sound of their breathing and they were sat with their bare feet in the sand, Enjolras turned to Grantaire.

“Push me again. I want to see the tower.” And Grantaire stood up, offered her a hand and together they walked back to the swing set.

Enjolras sat and Grantaire stood facing her.

“Enjolras! Enjolras, come on! Get away from her!”

Enjolras turned her head to face her father then looked back again.

“Kiss me,” she said, and Grantaire did.


End file.
